"I thought Stale used to write books," Bunch put in.

"He thought so, too, but the public passed him the ice pitcher," I
said. "He started in to be a successful author and then he bit his
tongue."

"He'll get after you good and hard if he hears you talking this
way," Bunch admonished.

"Say! Bunch! he's been after me for five years and he hasn't
caught up with me yet. Every time he's had a chance he's tossed a
few sneers in my direction, so I made up my mind the other day I'd
coax him down to the foundry and throw the anvil at him. If ever I
do cut loose on that Birmingham gent he'll think he has swallowed
one of his own harpoons. He's a case of Perpetual Grouch because
it gets the dough for him on pay-day.

"If somebody ever steals his hammer he'll be doing hotfoots for the
handout thing and he'll eat about once a week.

"It's a brave and glorious spectacle, isn't it, Bunch, to watch
this mouldy writer, with a big newspaper behind him and columns of
space at his command, throwing his hooks into actors and actresses
who haven't a chance on earth to get back."

"I'd hate to have to make my living by trying to drag the bread and
butter away from other people," Bunch butted in.

"Yes, and the nickel-plated nerve that goes with it," I went on.
"Every time this Stale guy goes to a theatre he makes it appear
that he was forced into a den of thieves and everybody he can point
out with his fountain pen is either a criminal or a dirty deuce.
What has he ever done that finished one, two, nine?"

"He's been fourflushing around for years about the pitiful
condition of the 'drammer,' but did he ever write a play that saw
the light of day? Nix.

"I'll bet eight dollars if he ever does get a play produced
there'll be nobody left in the theatre but the ushers and the spot
light after the first act."

"Lots of people think he is very clever," Bunch suggested,

"So is a trained goat," I came back. "If you stood a crowd of
handcuffed actors and authors and managers up in a corner and made
faces at them and called them names and blew spitballs in their
eyes you could get a laugh from the low foreheads, couldn't you,
Bunch?"

"Surest thing you know, John."

"Well, that's Grouchy Stale's line of endeavor. Say, Bunch, if it
were not for the knocks contained therein one of that guy's essays
would read like the maiden effort of a lovesick jellyfish.

"Did you ever pipe the pure and lofty and highly ennobling
sentime